Like Sour Wine and Sweet Poison
by craple
Summary: "And how much does a whore's love cost? Truth be told, girls made Quentyn anxious, especially the pretty ones." Gerris and Quentyn, from the age of adolescence till death does them apart. Metaphorically, of course.


Title: like sour wine and sweet poison (_moon that breaks the night_)

Pairing(s) – Word: Gerris Drinkwater/Quentyn Martell – 18k+

Written for: My horny sleep-deprived self because I don't think that anyone, and by that I literally mean _anyone_, would _ever _see this coming. Bloody fucking hell, I'm the only one who sees the potential and intensity and the hotness of this pairing, so sue me. Or not, if you enjoy this of course.

Timeline: During Robert's reign, a few years after the rebellion. Skipping a few years until it reaches the _Dance with Dragons_, though not so explicit; just small vivid description from the book because I'm all about the porn and less about the plot. I mean, aren't everyone are?

Warning(s): Sex between two _totally_ grown-out men. Blowjobs, handjobs, fingerfucking, masturbation, you name it, I have it. And as much as the idea of slow love-making bores me, there are too many hot rough sex stories around the internet so I'd stick with that. First time on being as graphic as I possibly can. Character study focuses on Quentyn despite me shamelessly using Gerris' point of view because other than the obvious heterosexuality, the possibilities of Quentyn having a little bit of, uhm, _way_ with Gerris is not completely impossible, yes?

* * *

"Have a look at that one," Gerris urged, as they passed one pillow house. "I think she's in love with you."

_And how much does a whore's love cost?_ Truth be told, girls made Quentyn anxious, especially the pretty ones.

– Quentyn Martell, _A Dance With Dragons_

* * *

It is weird, Gerris thinks, how the solemn Quentyn Martell can top him despite his shorter height. Often times he finds himself asking the same question over and over again as his prince yanks the collar of his shirt apart, the shattering of his buttons fill the stretched silence before he is pushed back on the worn-out mattress. The laces of his breeches come undone in the care of the boy's deft fingers, spilling his rock hard cock into the cold air and he moans; ripples of pleasure rush down his spine, his back arches off the bed.

There is something very _adorable_ downright _erotic_ in the way the prince looks at the knight's fully exposed flesh. Gerris is naked save for the ripped shirt that binds his wrists together. Quentyn's eyes, dark and oh so very intense with pure unadulterated lust, focuses on him like he's the last meal he will ever have on this mad journey to court the dragon queen. He secretly hopes he is, deep down. Gerris struggles to free his hands from his shirt, but Quentyn only pushes his body harder against the bed with his palm on Gerris' chest, his other hand pulls at the bind to knot it tighter it's nearly painful. A startled gasp tears its way out of his throat and he rolls his pelvis against the prince's knee between his thighs automatically.

Sweat starts forming on the surface of his skin, and his stomach twists and aches and he _wants_. "_Please_," Gerris chants, a bit more desperate than he should, but the look Quentyn throws at him totally worth it. "Queent, _please_, just—"

The knight almost sobs with need when Quentyn's hand, that clever and deft and rough hand, wraps around his cock and _squeezes_ hard enough to hurt. It doesn't though, and he nearly comes when the prince bends down to lick at the head curiously. Quentyn spreads his legs further apart before nuzzling his nose against the sensitive spot behind his balls. Gerris actually cries with happiness this time.

"Be quiet, Ger. Your voice carries across the entire kingdom, like this," whispers the prince when he moves up to his face, rough and low and smoky into his ears, and Gerris moans and nods and fucks into Quentyn's hand like a slut he is totally not except when he's with Quentyn but that's, that's different. He mewls when the boy grazes his thumb down his length, eyes focused and fascinated when he trashes on the bed and curses _fuck_ in different kind of language; hips jerking and heart wild beneath his chest and Gerris chokes and pants and he can't—

"Breathe, Gerris," he hears as Quentyn mouths at his lobe, nibbling gently. "I'll make this so good for you, I'll make it last not like the last time. Just breathe, okay? Breathe."

Gerris nods and breathes.

* * *

When Gerris meets the young prince Quentyn Martell, he is instantly charmed.

Young Knight he is, along with all the others, older and broader with more experience than he does (or so they claimed); it is a tradition to be presented in front of the court to vow service to the Prince of Dorne. Up above the small throne Doran Martell sits, with the deadly Red Viper to his right and his beautiful good-daughter on his left. There is a feast, to be sure, but Gerris does not plan on getting drunk until he has impressed the royalties. He does not want to be seen as weak or unworthy of the title, just because. So he talks and eats peaches and drinks little as he waits for his turn.

Arianne Martell is everything a man ever wishes for. She is small and slender and beautiful of face with sharp wits and the silver tongue of the famous Bravosi courtesans. Of all the women he has ever encountered in his life before, Gerris has never met one so seductive, insanely perfect as she is. She flirts with him like he's some prince from far away land, touches his face or the exposed skin of his neck, brushing the collar of his shirt until the seam gives in and her nails are digging into his collarbone. He holds his breath because holy mother of fuck, praise the maiden above, this is Arianne Martell who is seducing him and not some whores. This is the princess of Dorne, the future queen and he is... pleasantly surprised.

He does not miss the lingering looks she gives him even after she has left. Gerris feels his cock harden at the sudden flashes of images of what he might do to her, or more like, her to him; the feeling of her skin under his own, hot and slick with sweat, what it would feel to be inside of her and listen to her cries of pleasure. He imagines tangling his fingers in her hair, pulling, doing wicked things with his fingers down between her legs. It is not until his breeches feel too tight, too cramped that Gerris excuses himself for some fresh air, forcing his eyes away from the princess as she talks with her little brother Trystane. The weight of her gaze on his back will not help easing the fantasy he'll be having, he decides.

The wind at night is always cold in Dorne. It blows wisps of his hair around his face as he pours the entire content of the flagon into his mouth, seeking relief from the hot liquid down his throat mixed with the stinging cold of the atmosphere. His cock softens as he walks down the empty corridor, humming tunelessly to himself, the soft sound of his voice pierces the quiet night like the tip of a blunt dagger being sheathed from its scabbard. While perhaps he is not as good as any singers even the worst ones, Gerris prides himself on having a good voice. As a knight he needs it not, but as a common man with face as comely as a foreign prince from the one of the exotic Free Cities, he needs it. Most whores love it when he's talking dirty into their ears whilst he fucks them, hard or not. Gerris frowns.

Beneath the moon light, a boy sits upon the railing by the door. His back is hunched, his shoulder covering half of his face save for his eyes, which are downcast and half-lidded. The soles of his boots make rattling noise each time one of his legs hit the small pillar of the railing, the black shadow on the ground following the movement in time. He has pale skin and a shock of thick black hair. From his looks, Gerris predicts he is either nine or ten, and a high born if the rich emerald tunic and leather-skin breeches and the metallic boots are any indication. He does not realize he's been staring until the boy cranes his neck to meet his eyes.

The first thing that comes to his mind is that this boy is definitely a Martell. Dark eyes he has, two bottomless pits of dark green, though unlike Arianne and Trystane who are stunning and comely, he is plain of face and devoid of any emotion. He cannot read his face even if he tries, and there is something about him that catches his eye. Without meaning to he keeps staring until dust gets beneath his eyelids and tears are welling around the corner. Gerris blinks them away when he finally finds his voice to speak. The knight clears his throat but does not speak.

"Um, ah..." he murmurs softly while shifting his weight from one foot to another. It is hard to look away from his eyes. _This is just a kid_, thinks Ser Gerris of Drinkwater. _Prince Quentyn if I'm not wrong, but still a kid_. He grins sheepishly and approaches him with careful steps. Quentyn does not even pretend to hide his stare or look away. Neither does Gerris. Surprisingly the boy is the first one to break the silence.

"You're one of the new knights." The boy states with finality. Gerris does not know how to respond at that. He shrugs his shoulder a bit and says, unbidden, "And you're the Prince Who Comes Too Late."

He tries to keep his voice even, yet there is a hurt and question in that, and he asks himself why would he feel something like that when he—when he does not even care about the bloody party. Quentyn does not say anything for a moment; just looks at him with those calm steady eyes. Gerris feels uncomfortable under his stare but somehow finds it in him liking the attention the little prince is giving him. He has drunk too much wine, he decides, because heat coils in the pit of his stomach, and both his neck and cheeks feel hotter than the Dornish sun. Unconsciously he starts tapping the flagon to his right hip, his muscles going slack though he feels a bit nervous all of the sudden.

"Shouldn't you be inside the hall with your sister?" Gerris asks, irritated. His outburst confuses the little prince as he frowns and purses his lips.

"The party does not necessarily require my presence. And you don't look like you really care about the party either," Quentyn retorts, scoffs quietly before turning his attention back at whatever he was looking down below. "You look sexually frustrated, ser. Has my sister seduced you yet?" there is no venom in his voice, no sarcasm. He is purely curious at what he might say next, but not so much to actually pay attention to him. Somehow that makes him furious. Apparently he has taken more wine than he should, since the urge to come forward and throw the flagon at this little boy's face is strong enough that he might actually do it.

Instead Gerris stalks through the shadow and sits beside him on the railing, their shoulders brushing as he leans forward to take a good look at his face. The boy simply looks at him from the corner of his eye with the same indifference. He really wants to wipe that look off his face and replace it with something, _anything_, and for a moment, Gerris forgets that he's talking to a prince. "Can you like, smile a little bit? Or scowl or anything? I want to see your face when you smile."

That catches the boy off-guard. A sharp intake of breath and he's looking at Gerris like he's a baby three-headed dragon that needs shelter. It takes a moment for Gerris to realize what he just said, what he just asked of the prince of Dorne and the close proximity that counts beyond what is appropriate hasn't bothered the little prince yet, and how none of them has shrunk away. His prince stinks of peaches and oranges and fresh water and he wants to kiss his face, his hair, and best of all his lips. It takes another moment to ponder over his wishes and realizes that he's talking about a ten year old kid before he's disgusted with himself.

"Pardon, my prince, I didn't mean—"

"What is your name, ser?" Quentyn cuts him off before he can finish. Gerris swallows before replying, "Drinkwater. Gerris Drinkwater, my prince."

"I see. Would you stop calling me my prince and treat me like a friend if I ask you to?" asks the prince. The question in itself is serious, or teasing, he's not sure. Quentyn's face has not changed from before, but his posture softens and his eyes are not piercing into his soul like before. They are still so very intense though. Gerris swallows visibly, and nearly gasps when the boy follows the motion with his eyes and licks his lips. Throwing himself off the railing will not be such a bad idea, at the moment. He wishes the empty flagon can refill itself so he can drink more before the heavy clouds in his head can stir clear and he's sober enough to think. He leans back against the pillar and gives a small nod.

To his surprise, Quentyn cracks a smile and he looks younger than he already is.

"Call me Quent, then. And I'll see you later."

He hops off the railing, pats his shoulder, runs off back into the hall where the party is being kept.

Gerris holds his breath and braces himself for the fall.

* * *

Sword-training the little prince is his first order after going back from a dangerous voyage through the narrow sea. He is a knight from Drinkwater, strong and kind and comely, the perfect knight that Dorne wants but not what it needs. Areo Hotah is the strongest knight he knows aside from the Cleganes, though Gerris refuses to call them knights after what they have done. Not that he can blame them for having monstrous faces though. It must be hard to get a willing whore no matter how much Lannister gold they have in their purses with that kind of face. Anyway, it has been a while since he last saw the beautiful princess and the little princes. Gerris is excited in more ways than one, and he finds himself hidden beneath his blanket, hips jerking against the smooth, _smooth_ silk, one hand wrapped around his cock while the other clutches at the mattress desperately.

It is not his first round for the night, and he does not expect it will be the last of it either. Jerking off in his private chamber is not really one of his favourite things to do, since it doesn't really help all the tension from easing out of his body. Gerris prefers whores or some of those beautiful kitchen maids, but it will take a bloody long time to finish (the flirting, the suggestive looks; he has to court them first like a lord would a lady and he just _can't_ when he's having a boner the size of the Titan's head statue) and the prince is waiting. He imagines how the prince Quentyn Martell will look like after two years; if the shape of his face has changed, if the softness of his thick black hair is still there, if his lips are still as chapped and thin, and his eyes. Oh, how can he not remember that? Gerris tries to see the prince's dark eyes, all those weight and heat and secrets and his thoughts hidden beneath the dark irises and _oh_. Gerris twists his wrist to the side, pushes his cock forward to the silk and stains it with his cum. He muffles his scream into the pillow as to not alert Archibald in the chamber next to his.

The knight of Drinkwater mouths at the sheet beneath and pretends it is Quentyn's lips instead.

He is doomed beyond saving, that much is true.

* * *

There have never been times where Gerris think that the prince is unattractive no matter what he wears. Quentyn always looks nice on everything; green velvet or dark blue or even the soft pink Myrish lace; he is all that Gerris ever wants. Princess Arianne looks exceptionally stunning in her red sleeveless dress, lavished in thin gold threads with a golden necklace of coiled snake that rests atop of collarbone. It is true that the knight is in love with Quentyn (it's been so long he doesn't even have the tendency to deny it anymore; so long with vivid dreams and dirty fantasies that always lead to a hand around his cock or a new Dornish whore on his bed sooner or later), but there is no law that says he cannot give into temptation of seeing another pretty face. She is talking and laughing with the rest of the southern Lords when she catches his eyes, smiles wickedly, full of suggestions that make Gerris squirms. Darkstar stands not far behind her though, so he smiles politely back and gives a small salute at the other knight's direction. His eyes are drawn to someone else.

"Gerris," calls the prince of Dorne in his usual plain-bored tone. There is something like affection in his voice though, slight as it is, that makes Gerris feels hot all over again. Seems like no matter how many times he spent on jerking himself off in his room, it will never be enough. He turns around and smirks a bit, because he just can't help it when he's around the little prince. Quentyn frowns at him in dismay, the barest hint of a pout on his lips. He tries not to look. "You should have come sooner. You're late more than ever." Gerris shrugs his shoulder, his smirk turning into a grin, and snatches a bottle of wine from a tray of the passing-by waitress. In his head a picture of Quentyn saying the same line, though in a rougher voice, lowers by a timbre, into his ear. The heat on the pit of his stomach coils tighter than the snake around Arianne Martell's neck. "I just got back," he replies before tipping the glass between his lips, savouring the sour taste of the Dornish wine on his tongue, down his throat.

This time, Quentyn _actually_ frowns, and it's the most adorable sight Gerris has ever seen in his entire life before. He thinks of doing something that would make the prince pout more often. "You're not. Archibald was here earlier than you. He was talking to me about the latest hunt." One hand goes back to rest beneath the back pocket of his breeches, and Gerris' eyes follow the motion with interest. The prince doesn't seem to notice and continues in an accusing tone that he still finds weirdly adorable. "He said you locked yourself in your room for hours without reporting back to father. Or to me." And fuck, _fuck_. Gerris tips the glass back to his mouth, swallowing the hot liquid down his throat roughly just to shift his attention to something else other than the hurt and accusation in the other boy's tone. Quentyn is staring at him unabashedly too, not even trying to mask the confusion and everything else (but there it goes, that small hint of expression that says he's not revealing anything, that there's something ticking in his head that he just won't show) from his face. Silently Gerris blames that big mouth of Archibald's, says nothing, just shrugs.

Looks like _that_ is the last straw. He sees Quentyn's fists open and close, loosely, sees the flicker of something that _burns_ in his eyes before it disappears completely. A pang of disappointment surges through him, but Gerris ignores that, tries to find a reason or something, to apologize. The prince sighs, long and heavy, and he looks so tired and worn-out it makes something inside his chest ache. "Never mind that. I'm really glad you're okay, though _that_," he points at the glass before snatching it from Gerris' hand, fingers brushing and he prays to the gods beyond count that the prince doesn't notice the shiver that runs through him. "Is not okay. Why are you always trying to be drunk when talking to me anyway?" his lips part to answer, but Quentyn waves his hand first, says never mind, and he is fascinated by the long fingers. The prince tugs at his sleeves and drags him down the hall.

"Where are we going?" he asks, because that's the only thing he manage to get out of his lips, trying not to get his hopes too high as his chest dwells in excitement of the knowledge that this is Quentyn who's dragging him out of the party, Quentyn who tugs persistently at his sleeves instead of him to give in first into the temptation. The younger prince stop and turns to look at him, something akin to anger and annoyance on his face, and instead of feeling sorry if he forgets anything or if they have any schedule for the day, Gerris insides are screaming with joy, happiness. _This is me_, he thinks, mesmerized by Quentyn's dark eyes. _I make him look like this, I make him feel like this_. He groans. "Don't you remember? We have sword-training to do? Which whore has done this to you anyway? Is that why you came too late?" and _yes, yes, yes_, Gerris chants inside his head, before snapping to reality and shifts his legs in vain hope to hide the bulge in his breeches. The prince notices, however, and this is bad, this is the end of it. "Quent—"he whispers, unsure, thinking of the worst. Quentyn sighs and shakes his head.

"If you want to go back to her so much, fine. We can train tomorrow, in the morning, when you're not so _drunk_." Quentyn says and leaves him there.

Gerris wants to scream because, no, it's not some whore that makes him feel like this, that makes heat burns throughout his body, that makes his skin wet with sweat and flushed with need. He wants to scream _it's you that I want_, anything just, _anything_. He doesn't. Gerris turns away and goes back to his room.

* * *

Tonight, he dreams of Quentyn (again) and Quentyn's face as he scowls and Quentyn's anger burning into him each time they are connected, with Quentyn's cock between the cheeks of his ass and the pressure of Quentyn's fingers around his wrists because—because he just fucking saw Quentyn getting angry instead of the usual plain-bored expression. Tonight, he dreams of Quentyn on top instead of him and feels his fingers twitch to touch the hardening erection.

Tonight, Gerris gives into the temptation once more and grips his cock.

* * *

Morning is better, he assumes, because Quentyn looks like he has forgotten everything about the night before. He waits for him in the front yard as he promises, with crossed legs and a sword resting on top of his lap. Gerris walks silently to the yard, jumping over the railing, to get a closer look at the prince.

He is calm, as usual, if not slightly bit dazed. His eyes are focused on something far, far away in the horizon, his lips closed, and a dab of sweat threatens to fall off his chin. Gerris' eyes automatically follow the trails it makes down the prince's smooth neck before it disappears beneath the thin white clothes. Somehow it has been harder, so hard lately, not to stare at Quentyn or think of what is hidden beneath his clothes. He is fourteen and nearly man-grown, still green with awkward limbs and smooth face, while Gerris is twenty basked in all of his strength and glory and, not to be a narcissist, _perfect_. It is laughable how he can have every woman (or men, really; it's not like he hasn't, you know, _tried_ with other men or anything) in all of Dorne if he wants, yet it is the prince, the _boy_ prince that he wants. It would have been fine if the said prince is like, four years younger maybe, so he won't feel so _old_ and _creepy_. But whatever. Before his train of thoughts can go further or worse, someone catches him staring, Gerris walks over with a loud yawn.

Quentyn looks at him and immediately frowns. Gerris wonders if it's something in his face, though the frown disappears when the prince stands up to throw a sword at him. He catches it swiftly, swinging to see the balance, nearly flailing when he realizes how sore his muscles are. The frown is back on Quentyn's face and he snaps in annoyance. "What?" Quentyn tilts his head, revealing pale sweaty skin that Gerris wants to touch, hair sticking to his neck. "You look like someone who has just gotten out of bed," he says flatly. Gerris' mouth drops, his eyes widen. The other boy shrugs and looks away. "Like you haven't taken a bath yet, I mean. Do you want to take a rest for a bit? Or a bath if needs be." _Oh_, Gerris thinks, disappointedly. _Right._

"I'm fine. Just a rough night, is all." He replies and takes his stand. Quentyn gets into his fighting stance the moment he sees the knight is ready, but still stares at him curiously, unsure.

"But there is no woman getting into the palace last night. My sister and the Sand Snakes went with them to pray or something like that." And Gerris grins.

"My dear Quent," he purrs, the taste sweet yet sour in his mouth. "Whoever says I was fucking, or being _fucked_, with a woman?" Quentyn doesn't flush shades of red like he wants him to, doesn't even bat an eyelash at that. He just cracks his neck with his fingers; his only reply is a short flat _'Oh'_ and then he's back to sword-fighting. Gerris sees the tightening of his fingers around the hilt, sees the focus back in the prince's dark eyes, and gets back to his position, ignoring the roaring strained muscles beneath his skin.

The statement, that simple _'oh'_, stings more than it should.

* * *

Archibald notices. And, yeah okay, of course he will—it's so plain fucking obvious, from the subtle glances he send at the prince when he's not looking (or at least subtle enough in Gerris' opinion, though apparently it's not for Archibald and the rest) to the sometimes obvious bulge in his breeches, plain for everyone to see, even the ones with bad eye sights. It's ironic because, the sharp and oh so intelligent Quentyn is the only one who doesn't notice. Other than relief, it's hurt he feels; hurt and annoyed because it's been going on for years but the boy has never noticed, also relief because _of course_, he _can't_ know. That will end everything.

It is when they talk about sex. Of course it's awkward and slightly bit off, because Quentyn usually talks about this kind of thing with Cletus, or Will if the other's not around, but never Gerris. Never Gerris _or_ Archibald. Archibald he understands, but Gerris who is, who is handsome and probably more experienced than the others, now _that_ he doesn't understand. So he is caught off guard when Quent walks over to him during one of their missions together, this time with Archibald and Will, sits down, offers him a cup of wine, and asks him to leave with him in private. At first he thinks that, _'has he known'_, and immediately gets into a state of frozen-panic. Quentyn realizes though, with a frown, says nothing. They leave for a quieter place on the corner of the bar they are gathering information from.

"Kitchen's cook, you know her don't you?" when he nods, Quentyn looks away and bites his lips. His eyes are drawn to focus on that instead of his face, as it often does. "We... I-I slept with her." He stutters, pauses, then looks at him.

There is an awkward sort of silence stretches out between the two of them, where Quentyn holds his breath and Gerris holds his. His brain processes each word carefully, replaying over and over and over again until he is sick and wants to vomit and feels hatred directed to one gorgeous kitchen's cook. Quent takes his silence as his cue to continue, though Gerris barely hears a thing. His mind fumbles, dances, fights, at war as heat of... something, raw, full of hatred, pools deep in his chest, cracking him apart like he's a fragile stone that's been stabbed severely until it breaks by a valyrian-steel sword. It hurts too much, he's too angry that he can't even think, doesn't even realize that Archibald is looking at them with silent careful eyes. Quent is too crazed to realize either, so he keeps talking until he realizes that Gerris isn't even listening anymore.

A hand rests on the crook of his neck. Cool hand, slender and rough. Gerris is close of jumping out of his skin, but he stills instead, staring at two dark pools of blue that he sees every night in his dreams. He knows that Quent's eyes are amazing, mesmerizing, _always_ makes him feel weak when they stay at him too long or when they sparkle at something he says. But this—this is different, he thinks. Gerris is angry, close to taking out his sword to slash at anyone nearby, _anyone_ except for Quentyn; heart beats erratically, his pulse sings louder than ever that he can't, he can't _think_. Especially not when Quentyn's finger touches the fluttering pulse beneath, starts rubbing if not a bit tenderly, absentmindedly, up to the sensitive spot just beneath his lobe, before going back to his pulse. It goes on like that, each touch sends electric jolt from head to toes, specifically _painful_ behind the base of his cock. He is hard the fifth time the prince does... does _that_ and lets out a strangled moan deep from his throat.

Gerris tries to lean back as far away from the prince as he possibly can, tries to stop the flush from filling his cheeks, to reason that it's not, it's not like _that_. But it's hard to do all that because Quentyn's finger still rests there, doesn't even move an inch from the exact same spot where his pulse still flutters like lightning during thunderous storm and he—he _must_ have realized that because this is Quentyn and his finger is _right_ over there! Gerris, Gerris can't leave because Quentyn's eyes feel like it's holding him there, piercing right through his soul, keeping him there. Quentyn licks his lips, eyes flicker with interest and curiosity and Gerris fucking _whimpers_. Body trembling with newfound desire, Gerris thinks that he can do this; he can kiss Quentyn because right now he can, because Quentyn looks like he, he probably wants it too? And then he licks his lips because it's gone too dry, and Quentyn's eyes are drawn to the motion and he's leaning closer and he—

"Are you alright, Gerris?" Quentyn asks, voice rough, and Gerris freezes. His breath hitches down his throat, and he feels so, so fucking _stupid_ to believe for _one second_ that Quentyn is, Quentyn is—

Gerris clears his throat before standing up abruptly. The prince looks at him, confused, curious more than ever. He looks away and doesn't realize that Archibald is looking at them, that Quentyn's breathing pattern is ragged and he is flushed from ear to ear, that the prince is sweating too and shivers at the loss of contact between skins. He turns away to hide the growing erection and doesn't see, clears his throat and says, "I need some fresh air."

He never goes back to the inn they're staying at that day and stays at a brothel after fucking some cheap whore instead. He doesn't know that Archibald tells Quentyn everything about it after.

Neither does he know that that night is the very same night, the very first time that Quentyn crawls into his bed, inhaling his scent, thinking of him as he jerks his hips against the bed erratically, breathing Gerris' name into Gerris' pillow as he comes.

* * *

They don't see each other for a year.

* * *

On Quentyn's six-and-ten birthday, Gerris is away. He tries not to think of how the prince will look like this year, if he has grown taller than before, the taut planes of his chest after a daily work-out, how his hand will feel after a year of sword-fighting with Archibald. Cletus has told him that Quentyn has become a knight a few months back, and he also told Gerris something quite disturbing, disturbing enough that he didn't manage to sleep without jerking himself off every single night until, until now. _"The prince has been missing you, you know."_ Cletus had said, and then he would wrap his hand around his cock, the image of Quentyn's flushed cheeks and sparkling eyes, the feel of his fingers rubbing against the pulse of his neck the last time they met. He would always feel unsatisfied, after. Something in his chest would throb painfully, oh so very painful that he surprised himself by not dying yet.

He has promised the prince long, long ago that he would never miss his birthday no matter what happens. While this might not be the first time he break a promise, a strong pang of guilt settles into his chest, so he takes a purse of dragon to drink himself to sleep. The drinking manages to take his mind off the prince, for a while, but he still finds himself staring at a guy who is shorter than him, plain of face with dark black hair. His eyes are different though. They're not as dark or as intense, and once they make contact with his, they lose focus immediately like he's in a daze because some gorgeous princess is staring at him. So he does pride himself in his look, but he can't believe that he is actually, actually _interested_ with this guy but, okay. Okay, he might suffice for the night. With that thought in his mind, Gerris finds himself sauntering over to the guy, purposefully swaying his hips just a little bit and watches the guy's mouth going slack as he holds his breath. Gerris smirks.

"So," he slurs, deep and low, staring straight at the other guy's eyes. "Have you ever heard of the Red Viper of Dorne? People say he sleeps with both women _and_ men..."

* * *

Apparently the guy is not as innocent or as dumb as he thought, because he flirts back with equal lewdness yet still sounds intelligent in his ears. Gerris lets him touch the tip of his fingers, brush his fingers against his knuckles, even lets him rub small soothing patterns around his wrist. The inn keeper comes and he asks for two glasses of beer, also a bit of food maybe. He changes his mind when the guy gives more pressure at his wrist, just a bit, gives him this crooked suggestive smile (then he remembers Quentyn who barely smiles or shows any emotion aside from that flat, indifferent face) that makes him think yeah, okay, this guy is _so_ okay it's fine to leave the place without food. Or the beer or anything really.

Gerris turns to the innkeeper, cancels his order, and asks the guy whether he wants to leave like _right now_ with his most innocent blinding smile that hides his real intention beneath dark irises clouded with... something. Not lust surely; he would know. Quentyn is the only one who can ever interest him, who really matters to him all in all. If he fucked some other guys before, well, that's only because the frustration swelled too much. Gerris tries to imagine Quentyn's skin, tan from hours of training beneath the scorching sun of Dorne, yet still maintains its paleness after a few weeks of skipping sword-fighting. He remembers the first time Quent smiled at him, and boom, there's your boner. The knight leans forward, just a slight little bit as to not raise any suspicions, smirking.

But then, before he can even make his move (he forgets what it is, he was going to do, for heaven's sake, but he does remember getting out of the place with this guy) though, a voice that only pops up in his fantasies, that he only hears during one of his stays in the palace, stops him dead.

"Ger." The voice says flatly, once again devoid of any emotion. "You're here." Finishes the prince with a calmness that hides whatever it is he is feeling at the moment. If he feels anything at all. The guy he plans to fuck seems to sense him tense, with his breath hitches the moment he hears _his_ voice after so long, the way his body responds to that in a quite shocking manner like _freezing up_ like some fool, his eyes blown, his jaw clenches. Gerris doesn't intend on leaning back because the prospect of him being with someone else in front of Quentyn is sort of, really hot? Curious because, how would the prince respond if he were to flirt with this guy or have his way with him for the entire bar to see? Not that the guy would allow him though, but it is a curious thought. But this guys—_fuck_ why can't he remember his fucking name for gods' sake—leans back, removing any sort of contact to look at the, at the intrusion. Gerris eases himself stiffly back to his chair, arms limping on his sides. He forces a smile, shifts his legs to let his need being shown, just because, looks at Quentyn and deeply regrets his decision within three seconds.

People will always find that Quentyn Martell is not as gorgeous, as stunning as his siblings are. Trystane is comely and it is simply a fact that Arianne is absolutely beautiful. Quentyn is the plain one, the one who always obeys and cares not for appearance or jealous of his siblings' beauty because to him it doesn't really matter. He is usually well-dressed or simply-dressed, never over-dressed even in rich lavishing parties that Dorne has like, once a fortnight. Even tonight, the prince of Dorne is only clad in loose dark-brown coat that extends down to his knee, a simple clean white shirt beneath, dark-brown breeches and simple brown boots. That's okay, that's usual, the oh-so-Quentyn material or something. But fuck, what has he been _fucking_ doing, fucking _thinking_ during the eleven months of avoiding the prince as much as he possibly can? His eyes, already darken from the previous flirting with this god-knows-what-his-name-is guy, are locked at the sight of collarbone, jutting out beneath the white shirt that fucking _stretches_ around his body; a bit too tight maybe, like one of those clothes Quentyn still has since he's thirteen but doesn't bother throwing because it's still useable. The clothes reveal muscles, not too many or stand out or anything, but there _are_ some of them around his chest, the curves of his stomach, even around his arms. Quentyn's skin is more tanned than before, with small scratches and bruises all over his skin and he assumes that yeah, of course he's been training even without him. Quentyn is just that type of person. It doesn't mean that he can't have this feeling of wanting to kill the guy who created those scratches because it's _him_ who supposed to make those, not this new teacher of his.

Gerris eyes make long travel from the prince's neck down to his boots, before back up again to his neck. He doesn't want to see his face just yet because, this is Quentyn fucking Martell he is looking at, not some guys he saw and flirted with to get off. Quentyn rarely smiles, moreover laughs, but that doesn't mean he is never happy. It's hard to tell what he feels, true, though Gerris knows everything. All he has to do is _look_ into those eyes and he will always know whether the prince is feeling sad or happy. Okay, so maybe not always, but most of the times he will. More often than not. Knowing Quentyn, Gerris guesses that the prince is currently staring unabashedly at him as he usually does, blank-faced and calculating, or curious. Some small part of him wishes that he's not, wishes that Quentyn has this look of hurt or anger, like the one when he got drunk and forgot about their sword-training session. He wants Quentyn to feel something, to let his emotions show because, because they are close friends and, and he w_ants_. Wants to feel _special_ at least, wants to _matter_ to Quentyn, not because he's the freaking prince of Dorne that Gerris has been having a crush on _and_ lusting over for eight fucking years it's not healthy. His eyes are probably the most attractive feature in Gerris' opinion, which is why he _has_ to look at them.

He is not surprised to find Quentyn's eyes staring at him _exactly_ like the way Gerris imagines he will. It's blank yet they are dark and intense and give nothing away; focuses on him like a maester would to a grievously wounded person, or his father to his new books that are not really fascinating but useful in its own way. Gerris can't really describe it. First time in nearly a year, just as he is about to think that he might already be free from this, from this stupid longing inside his chest that keeps on building, he is back to ground zero after drinking the sight of the prince in front of him.

Gerris clears his throat in vain attempt of not making this awkward. "That's my coat," he blurts out instead, realizes after a few seconds that oh, Quent is wearing his coat, and it slides around his body just perfectly, and he wants to wrap his arms around him or curse him because, because if he doesn't feel the same way about Gerris then Quentyn can go like, the fuck off and leave his stuff alone? And he thinks, yeah, way to go Drinkwater, talk about not making this awkward. What is he doing with Gerris' coat anyway? He has a lot of coats, uncountable numbers of them even, resting inside his dresser, waiting to be used. Yet he saunters over to his place calmly with all the grace a prince can muster, calls his name with deep flat tone, dressed in _his_ coat and this is—this is fucking hot. His cock jumps visibly in his breeches and he tries not to squirm beneath the prince's darkening gaze.

Quentyn shrugs in that casual _oh-you're-just-another-guy-I-don't-really-give-a-fuck-with-so-good-bye _sort of way. Gerris wants to kick him. Or kiss him, whichever comes first. He'll wager on his cock so it must be the kiss. _That_ if the prince hasn't left running across Dorne yet out of the knight's creepiness, of course.

Even the awkward silence doesn't manage to soften his cock. Instead; Gerris feels like he can explode any moment, crawl out of his skin simply to hug Quentyn, to kiss those lips and sink his teeth into Quentyn's skin, preferably around his neck where even the highest-collar can't hide it so _everyone_ can see. "Uncle Oberyn visited for my birthday, said that he wanted to bring some whores to my bedchamber tonight. No, correction," Quent brings his hand up, eyes closed and what can be _identified_ as a _smirk_ stretches across his face. Playful smirk that Gerris has never seen before and god, what has happened to the kid princeling who never smiles?! "He planned to bring all the whores from the entire brothels in Dorne to fill each and every single bedchamber in the palace."

Gerris thanks the gods for the distraction of this rather _shocking_ topic. It is a common fact that the Red Viper of Dorne is the craziest sort of man one will ever encounter in life, but this is just a little bit too much. He pauses, tries to adapt at the sight of Quentyn's smile that makes his stomach churn in a way that drive him nuts, his heart probably losing all the rhythms, thumping against his ribcage in the most painful way possible. For a moment he forgets about his companion, who is looking back and forth between the prince and himself, mouth parts open in shock either from the news or the fact that he is standing before a prince, he's not sure. He bursts out laughing after a while.

"By the gods, I can't believe he _actually_ did that!" drawls Gerris between roars of laughter, and Quentyn's smile grows into this half-smirk, completely and utterly amused. He tries to ignore the stiffening of his cock at that by forcing a louder laugh out of his throat. But yeah, as he expects, the prince sees through his lies. Suddenly he hates himself for replacing the half-smirk that so rarely—_never_—appears with a slight thoughtful frown. It disappears quickly though, and Quentyn's face is the usual mask of indifference. The prince gives a polite bow to his companion (whom he finally decides is not worth his time anymore, gods forbid), which the guy replies with an idiotic blink of his eyes.

"Ser, there is something I need to talk about with my long lost companion here, Ser Gerris. I believe you won't mind if I take him for a while? If you're lucky, he might as well return within an hour, don't worry." It is not a question but more of a statement that accepts only 'yes' as the most appropriate response. There is finality in Quentyn's voice, not that of authority or something that intends to be intimidating, no. Gerris stands up without waiting for the man's response and grabs a hold of Quentyn's elbow before dragging him away, laughing.

"Very eloquent, my prince," he whispers into the other's ear, not intending to be seductive but it comes out low and sensual even to his own ears. Geris expects him to frown again, to reply with something clever or slightly mocking or even with a bit of frustration. Much to his surprise, Quentyn freezes mid-way; the muscles beneath his palm tense, his breath catches in surprise. When the prince shivers, just slightly, ever so slightly, Gerris sees the fear in his dark eyes. Fear of being caught he supposes, because this is Quentyn Martell who finally _cracks_, finally _notices_ that there is something, something going on with Gerris who just really cannot help himself and that Quent just fucking _shivered_ with a simple touch (so okay, he's got worse, like getting hard when he is only _near_ the prince, not so much as to even _touch_ him) adds the fuel, grows the fire in his stomach to burn hotter than ever.

Gerris is aware of the unwanted attention people are giving them. He is also aware of the persistent bulging in his pants that doesn't want to disappear no matter what he does, like thinking of a slaughtered kid, and that everyone is aware of _that_ too. Maybe even Quentyn, _especially_ Quentyn, considering the close proximity between them at the moment. The prince only looks at his face though, without any sign of having seen (or worse, _felt_) his discomfort. "Since when did you start talking like a proper bitch?" Quent asks, his eyebrow raised, an amused curve of his lips sends warm sensation into his aching chest. Archibald, he presumes, has been teaching the prince some things that are never intended to be heard by an underage kid. Gerris grins, chuckling softly beneath the back of his wrist as they make their way toward the entrance. He throws three silvers at the innkeeper's daughter's direction before closing the door behind him.

Sprays of cheap perfumes immediately assault his nostrils. The shouting of the traders in the Common Tongue, thick with accent from the Free Cities fills the hot air around them. Quentyn pushes forward, which he totally doesn't expect since no matter how uncomfortable the prince is, he would always put Gerris in front of him to shield him from mass of bodies. He leads the way with one hand tugging at the knight's sleeve and all Gerris can think is, oh. This is, this is nice. The sweet gesture does not soften his cock still though. So when his fingertips _accidentally_ make contact with Quentyn's wrist, nails scraping gently, and the prince responds by halting mid-way as a shiver goes down through him, Gerris groans and, fuck, this is _so_ not good.

Light-headed, Quentyn swallows hard down his throat, feeling his knees suddenly getting weak at the sound of his knight's rough voice, filled with obvious need that Quent never heard before. It's weird, like _really_ weird because this is Gerris who is his best friend for years but also very, really, extremely exciting to the point of arousing in its own way it feels rather creepy as well? Feeling uncomfortable, Quentyn tightens his grip around Gerris' sleeve, tugs at it rough enough to ask him to continue walking. They move along the street in silence that is somehow uncomfortable after that simple touch, yet Gerris keeps brushing his fingers against Quentyn's wrist and the most surprising part is that he doesn't push him away yet. Instead Quentyn tries to hold himself from pressing back against the feather-light pressure, from turning back to face the older knight so he can... so he can, do what? It's a passing thought that Quent never, that he only thinks once that night and he—he doesn't deny that, that _yes_, okay he _has_ been thinking a lot of, of kissing and licking and biting and, and even _sucking_? Like, just his skin to taste what the knight tastes like on his tongue out of curiosity alone.

As he is lost in thoughts, Quentyn doesn't realize Gerris' eyes on him, watching as he swallows, as his eyes darken visibly, the way his lips move unconsciously and his tongue flicks to taste the salt upon his lower lip. Gerris sees something in his eyes, the curious flicker that sparkles in his dark eyes each time Gerris touches him and it is not enough. So when they turn around a corner, dark and empty alley that is too tight, too cramped but without people regardless, Gerris wraps his fingers around Quentyn's wrist, gives him enough pressure that makes Quentyn's breath hitch and pulls the smaller frame flush against his body.

The coat slides down slightly and his eyes jump at the opportunity of exposed flesh; thin line of scar that stretches across the boy's right shoulder (he briefly wonders where did he get that, from who, totally not because he wants to kill the guy or whatever), the lighter skin where he usually covers with mails and the darker part of his arms after hours under the sun; the smooth lines of his neck and the jutting bone of his shoulder. Gerris feels the heat is back inside his churning stomach, coils from the pit up to his chest. His skin is crawling with want, craving for another flesh though preferably naked, against his. It doesn't do him any good of finally, _finally_ feeling Quentyn's heat seeping through his body because his erection feels too hard, too painful that his body feels impossibly numb, that perhaps he's going to die for real this time out of raw lustful _craving_ if that's even, if that's even possible. If it's not then well, he will be the first victim _ever_.

When Gerris lets out a long shaky breath, thick and hot and heavy against the prince's cheek, Quentyn reaches out for his wrist, rubbing a surprisingly shaking finger up and down the pulse. He snaps his head up in shock and is about to let him go, to apologize or even kneel for forgiveness, but freezes as Quent leans in close. The contact, the barest hint of Quentyn's chapped lips hot against his wet ones, sends a spike of pleasure so intense Gerris unconsciously thrust his aching cock between the prince's thighs, electing a strangled moan from Quentyn's lips. Gerris whimpers pathetically at the sound and rests his forehead down against Quentyn's forehead, lips brushing up and down though not quite touching, not yet.

"Please, you've got to tell me Quent," Gerris pleads harshly, unsure of what to do with his hands, one around Quentyn's wrist and the other limp on his side, itching to lift the coat back up or pulling it down with one stroke. "Just, _please_, you've got to tell me, that you... that you—"

"Want this?" Quentyn murmurs, warm and breathless into his mouth, and Gerris is forced to hold back from ripping the coat, _his_ coat, along with all the rest. He reminds himself that this is a public place; that everyone still can see them no matter how isolated this alley is, that this will be Quentyn's first time (he hopes, he wishes, he _prays_ it will be) with a man. Even as he thinks all of that, Gerris can't stop the stuttering of his hips, the broken gasps that escape his lips, can't even close his eyes because Quentyn's eyes are so dark clouded with lust, a look that Gerris has never seen before, a look that makes him moan while keep rocking forward against the prince.

It is not until Quentyn's throaty laugh pierces the silence that Gerris realizes his hands are fumbling with the laces of their breeches, though flailing due to the shaking. "Here, let me." And then Quentyn's fingers are tugging at his breeches, pulling it free before the same fingers slip down and down and oh. _Oh_. As Quentyn wraps his fingers around him, hot and rough and slick with sweat, Gerris sees white beneath his eyelids and then he, he _squeezes_ and Gerris slams his head back against the wall and comes so hard he has to hold on the younger boy's shoulders with a howl of Quentyn's name on his lips.

They stand there; staring at each other's eyes as Gerris tries to steady his ragged breathing while Quentyn holds still. He doesn't remove his hand from Gerris' breeches yet which is probably a good thing. His lips are parted open, eyes narrowing curiously and when he _does_ remove his hand, slowly, trailing a wet finger up his pelvis to his stomach, the knight whimpers at the loss of contact, knees buckle but he holds his place. Passing out on a once in a lifetime opportunity like this is the most idiotic thing he will forever regret until his death. He tries to regain his strength back because, by the gods, he knows that the real thing wouldn't even match all of the fantasies he's been tortured by throughout the years, but this is, this is just too much. They barely do anything, but he already came like he's been at it for hours, with his body too tired, too spent and all. He notices that Quentyn, Quentyn is hard too. His erection stands up beneath the cloth, and he grins and wants to say something concerning that, something snarky and dirty and maybe they might even fuck? Not here of course, like somewhere.

Gerris opens his mouth to speak, but the word that tumbles out is not what he wants to say.

"You laughed." The white good-bye flag is flapping inside his head. _Brilliant move, Drinkwater,_ Gerris thinks, if not bitterly. _Such brilliant move after having an orgasm in the hand of the one you wants the most_. Geris feels like slapping his face with a book, or an axe, preferably the latter to save him from his shame. Quentyn just smiles then, says nothing. The knight is suddenly all too aware of the warm trails of his cum coating the prince's fingers that are trailing up to his chest, his neck, before the prince brings it up to his lips, suspecting. He is hard again by the time Quentyn pushes a finger between parted lips, and licks it clean, eyes sharp in amazingly steady focus, staring straight into Gerris' storm-blue eyes challengingly.

A broken gasp escapes his lips. "Quent," he chants, starts jerking his hips forward again in pure desperation. "Please, Quent, _please_." Gerris drawls, rough with sex and he is silenced by a hand on his neck and a finger on his lips. Quentyn looks at him with crazed-face, ragged breath, and blown eyes. Without any warning, he crashes his lips onto Gerris' hard; the force of it makes Gerris' brain stops working in a flash as Quentyn devours him whole.

Lips, hot thin chapped wet lips, are moving so sensually against him that for a moment Gerris thinks that maybe this is not Quentyn who's kissing him; that he's with a courtesan of Bravos and not the quiet solemn Quentyn. But he opens his eyes and sees Quentyn's dark eyes and he's rocking his hips, rolling his pelvis in small quick thrust and he's pushing Quentyn against the other side of the wall. Their teeth clash when he slams the younger boy's smaller frame into the hard brick, causing blood to spill from his lower lips (or Quent's, he cares nothing at this point, he is too far gone). Gerris nips at Quentyn's lip, tracing the seam with his tongue curiously, mapping the patterns into his memories as humanly accurate as possible. His tongue pushes past the swollen lips, forcing it open and he took his time exploring inch by inch; licking up and down the moist cavern, the insides of his cheek, every single one of his teeth like it's been his job for years. Quentyn is suddenly shy at the new pace they're picking, but equally passionate. Even though he knows that he's probably not going to win, the raven haired stubbornly wrestling with Gerris' tongue, pushing back just as hard although in the end he lets the older man kisses him all hot downright pornographic. Heat is coiling in Quentyn's stomach and this time, he doesn't try to resist or stop it anymore.

No, wait, they need to stop _now_. "Wait, wait, wait, by the gods, Gerris, _wait_." Quentyn hisses before pushing him away roughly. Gerris holds his breath, feeling the ache inside his chest is much more painful than Quentyn's punch on his stomach, fear creeping up inside him. Upon realizing this kind of reaction from the knight, Quentyn pulls him back in apology, soothing the blonde tangled locks with his hand as he kisses him softly. At that, Gerris lets out a long breath of relief, hands cupping the prince's jaw though he doesn't try to deepen the kiss. The prince leans back with his teeth nibbling at the wounded lips.

"Uhm, the... the place I'm staying at is not, ahh, so far from here?"

So yes, it goes a little bit like that.

* * *

Due to starvation, he supposes, plus the lack of gold in Westeros with the over-large amount of taxes, that all inns are so poor. Gerris thanks the gods that Dorne is not directly affected, _especially_ the part around the harbour where ships from the Free Cities come and go. Rich men accompanied by their paramours walk down the streets, one or more sellswords on their side make the inns around the harbour better than the ones inside the city; brothels with more expensive whores, some places with more expensive food. Quentyn never bothers bringing a lot of money around when they're on a mission somewhere exclusive. Which is why it comes as a shock to him when they walk into a modest-looking house through the backdoor, climbing over steep stairs into Quentyn's rented room on the third floor.

The room is nicer than Gerris can ever hope for. Red dark wall on two sides, black on the other two, decorated with small patterns of fish on straight line. Square-shaped and large as it is, the bed is disappointingly small that Gerris thinks he might not fit on it. Obviously brand new black nightstands are on either side of the bed, completed with two black candle-holders shining underneath the sun light. A small brown worn-out bag sits comfortably on a desk by the large-only window in the room beside a few neat clothes, a purse of golden, two large books still wrapped in dark purple ribbons, and a cask of sweetened Dornish wine mixed with cold milk ("What is that?" Gerris asks with a hint of disgust in his curious slightly-mocking voice. "A courtesy of the house, Lenna says," replies the prince neutrally, and the knights wants to ask, _need_ to ask who the fucking hells Lenna is but forfeits because, holy shit, he's still hard, and Quent is hard, and he can ask for nothing more than a... than a bottle of oil, perhaps? Not scented, but preferably not cheap either?). All of them are obviously Quentyn's, from the look of it. But then his eyes land on a slim transparent-crystal bottle, resting innocently _behind_ the candle-holder, and his heart _falls_ so deep down below he can feel his cock twitches.

"Is that... is that oil, Quent?" the slight tremor in his voice is not missed by the prince, who looks at him in this impatient way of his, fingers tangled in the torn laces of his breeches, holy fuck. Gerris tries to swallow, hard, sweat falling off his skin, seeping into his clothes like waterfall. "It's a present from my uncle. He gave it to me as a birthday present, also as a parting gift when I told him I'd look for you." Quentyn explains quickly as he tugs at Gerris' ashy hair, waving his fingers into the tangled locks softly as an innocent girl would to a really fury cat. Gerris finds the motion soothing and cannot help to lean back against the touch, releasing a long sigh of relief thick with lust all at once. A part of him is so drowned in affection toward the younger prince that he wants nothing but to kiss him, dive his tongue into his mouth again and works him over until he is a shuddering mess against him. Yet after hearing the explanation of the oil's origin, Gerris feels his back stiffen, not visibly, as his brain processes the conclusion he is most afraid of.

Oberys Martell knows. Not even—he even _persuaded_ his nephew to, to _have sex_ with Gerris; not sex as in _just_ blowjobs or handjobs (although he _does_ wish to do, _that_ once they are, once they are comfortable enough with _this_, whatever _this_ means), but actual sex. While Gerris cannot say that he has never, ever think of, uhm, sex with Quentyn, it feels slightly uncomfortable that Oberyn Martell has knowledge of _them_. He wants to, he really, _really_ does but maybe Quentyn... big chance that Quentyn is not ready for anything yet and Gerris does not want to push him, does not want to press the matter to him until the prince wants it himself. Heck, if he is not so fucking desperate for another release, he would probably ask Quentyn if it's okay to do this, if he really wants to wake up in the morning with Gerris' body beside his, if he wants to have sex with Gerris not because he pities the knight. Instead Gerris brings his face close to Quentyn's; one hand tangles itself into the raven hair while the other rests on the base of the prince's spine. The knight starts walking backward, urges the prince to do the same with light pressure of his hand beneath the rumpled clothing, breathes in deeply when Quentyn does in fact, follow.

Quentyn stops later on though, on the third or fourth steps toward the bed; Gerris' dagger slicing the shirt neatly into halves, not bothering to remove the coat simply because he _loves_ it there, and Quentyn's own hands are ripping at the thin material of his clothes rather savagely. They both stop at once there, and Gerris waits. He has been waiting a life time or more for this moment. He is so not going to ruin everything with his impatience. The raven haired shifts uncomfortably, not meeting Gerris' eyes as he forces calmness into his voice. "I don't... I'm not, this is..." Quentyn swallows before looking up at him. "I have never lain with a man before," he tells him, barely a whisper, and Gerris grins wide, full of affection, at his new-found lover.

"Good," replies the knight, tilting Quentyn's chin up to slide his lips softly once. "That's really good, perfect even. Although you won't be my first, I shall be yours then. And you _will_ be mine," he adds with too much possessiveness in one sentence that the prince shudders, then kisses the blonde a chaste sweet kiss that makes something inside Gerris' ribcage flutter. "I will lead you through it one by one, my prince, do not worry." And he nearly laughs when Quentyn's lips immediately quirk down in a small barely-there pout, eyes focused and _burning_ with want, at last. There is annoyance too, written clearly all over his face. Not wanting to waste another time to please his prince, Gerris cuts the white shirt to pieces, lets it fall to the ground, turns around to guide the raven haired down on the bed with a gentle push.

He kneels down, parts Quentyn's knees apart, then buries his face between Quentyn's legs; mouthing words of affection in high-valyrian to his clothed inner-thighs and feels absurdly smug when the prince shakes, bucking up his hips wildly in return. Gerris smirks, shifts his eyes to lock with Quentyn's gaze as he unlaces the breeches, pulling the material down smoothly in one go, spilling the hard straining cock free. Quentyn inhales sharply at the feeling of the cold air around his sensitive skin, clenches his fists against the silk until his nails bite his skin, teeth sinking into his lower lip. The low temperature makes the raven haired shivers, moaning a loud in frustration as he expects the knight to do anything, _anything_ that preferably has something to do with his, his body, when he doesn't.

"Ger," Quentyn whines, obviously frustrated at the lack of movement. If Gerris can laugh, then he would certainly laugh at this newly childish behaviour his prince rarely (never) shows. But he doesn't. His mouth is dry, far too dry even, his tongue stiff, and there's this sudden urge, sudden hunger of taking the magnificent display into his mouth and have a lick of Quentyn's taste. Gerris licks his lips and looks up at Quentyn hopefully.

"Can I... I have been wishing to suck you for a while, can I do that Quent?" he asks softly, ghosting a finger on the heated skin of Quentyn's cock, barely touching at all. The prince squirms underneath his touch before nodding his head shakily. "Yes you, you can do, do that if you want just," a low growl cuts the rest of his sentence off as Gerris dives in the moment the word 'yes' is out of Quentyn's mouth.

He wraps his fingers around the base firmly, drawing circles on the boy's inner thigh with the other. Quentyn makes a soft, mewling voice deep in his throat when Gerris licks the underside of his length, sucks hard and hollows his cheeks to take the rest of him deeper, tasting the rest of him more. There is something in the way Quentyn whines into the pillow, sucks the air so hard his body trembles along with it that sets the slow burn in Gerris' stomach ablaze; the thumping of his heart beat sounds loud in his ears, his blood, as he silently coats a finger with the pre-cum leaking from the younger man's cock and shoves it gently between the tight rings of muscles. The prince bucks up, _hard_, the head of his cock hits Gerris' throat that he nearly chokes before he comes with a desperate sob of Gerris' name on his lips. He swallows everything down, feeling utterly satisfied for once even if it ends too quickly, too fast; it makes him want to do this all over again.

Once Quentyn breathes a little more steadily, Gerris shifts up to crawl above the younger man's body, making sure to slide his erection against the crack behind Quentyn's balls. He laughs in affection, lust and so much more when the prince flusters visibly, sweat-slicked body trembles underneath the contact and his breath comes out ragged in a second. It makes Gerris want to scream in relief, victory even, at the sure knowledge that yes, this is Quentyn's first time and this is Gerris who makes him squirm like this, the one who causes the red-shades around the smooth planes of his chest, the unmarred flawless skin of his neck, up to his ears. Talk about his neck, Gerris grins lazily down at him, leans closer and catches Quentyn's lips between his teeth.

The kiss turns sloppy, not quite gentle with their teeth bumping every once in a while, nipping hard enough to bruise. Gerris shoves his tongue between the prince's teeth, mapping, sucking, until he tastes fresh coppery tang of iron and salt thick in his mouth. He pulls back from the abused lips, before slowly making his way down Quentyn's chin, licking and sucking and nipping at the flushed hyper-sensitive skin of the prince's neck. Something inside him warns him not to break the boundary, to be careful, to not do something as stupid as leaving a mark on the perfect skin as _his_. But this is; this is something that does not-_will not_—probably, though he _tries_ to keep the raging _hopes_ at bay—happen anymore. So when Gerris finds a spot, this one sensitive spot on the younger man's jugular that makes him _purrs_, makes his breath hitched and his body shivering against his own, the knight nips at the skin, pulls it up with his teeth and sinks his teeth deep as droplets of blood fill his mouth, trailing down his chin, lost somewhere between the tangled sheet.

Quentyn whines into the pillow, his cock starts filling again. Gerris thinks that he is close to Death's door if he does not do anything about his throbbing erection, thrusting unconsciously at the mattress, _soon_. "Shh, I'm going to take care of you, okay?" he murmurs as the prince moans brokenly when he shifts his hips _just right_ that their cocks slide against each other, one hand reaches out blindly for the bottle of oil, twisting the cap impatiently and pours the content to his fingers. Gerris crashes their lips together once again, kissing him hotly like there is no tomorrow while his fingers work around Quentyn's erection until the boy is panting up into his mouth, chest heaving, and erection obviously hard and begging for attention. Without waiting, Gerris pushes a finger into Quentyn's ass, then stills.

He lets go of the younger man's lips, watches through half-lidded eyes as the raven haired moans another one of that broken moan, his head thrown back, exposing the crook of his neck beautifully for Gerris' eyes to feast upon. The knight takes the invitation, marking the prince once again with his tongue and his teeth and he crooks his finger inside Quentyn's ass and words, dirty incoherent words that even Gerris cannot process start pouring out of the prince's lips like a freaking waterfall. "Yes, yes, _yes_, that-_Gerris yes that one_, fuck, oh fuck, _oh-_"and just like that, Gerris pushes a second, a third finger, moving them torturously slow, purposefully slow against Quentyn's prostate because he does not want this to end, not yet, not until he has taken everything that is Quentyn, until they are one which is, _soon_.

Gerris pulls his fingers back, breathes in at the sound of Quentyn's whimper at the abrupt loss of contact, shifts their hips until he is positioned above the prince's body; his taller frame helps his reach toward the younger man's parted lips as he slings Quentyn's legs above his shoulders. There is a moment of comfortable stillness where Gerris takes his time slicking his cock with the oil with one hand, brushing strands of black hair from the boy's forehead with the other. "You've got to relax, Quent, okay?" he murmurs, softly, steadily, trying to be as reassuring as he nudges the tip of his cock against the tight ring of muscles. "Trust me." Gerris says, tells, snatches Quentyn's swollen lips with his own in a passionate bruising-kiss before he shoves forward; devours all the broken keening sounds escaping Quentyn's mouth with his tongue and teeth until he's sheathed all the way in.

Gerris stills, fingers tightening around the mattress, nails digging into the skin of his palm as he _breathes_. It comes down long and shaky, thick with so much need pouring out together like something inside him that barricades his true _feelings_ from getting out finally _breaks_ at the sensation of being inside Quentyn, the unbearable _heat_ seeping through his skin from their connection, the _tightness_—_oh gods,_ Gerris chants in his head, bites at his lip hard, hard, _hard_ until he tastes blood simply to keep his _sanity intact for sevens sake_—that engulfs his cock, the gasps and the high-pitched _wails_ that escape Quentyn's lips are _too fucking intense_ he nearly lets it go, tempted to let it go, _wants_ to let everything go.

But he does not, _cannot_ do any of that, not yet. This time is not about him, well part of it _is_, but this is Quentyn and this is his first time and he knows, he _knows_ that it must have hurt as hell because _he'd been there_.

Carefully, Gerris runs a soothing palm repeatedly down the smooth skin of Quentyn's back. He mouths at the expanse of the prince's throat, pushes with the right amount of pressure to feel the pulse beneath, nibbles at the skin until Quentyn stutters; a hot trembling mess that is simply _perfect_ in Gerris' eyes. And then he _moves_—_finally, thank gods, thank gods, finally_—and Quentyn _loses_ it.

The prince heaves out a deep growl that resonates through their bodies; goes straight to his cock and causes his hips jerking, his voice trembling. Gerris buries his face into the thick black locks, inhales the scent whole-heartedly as he shifts Quentyn's ass up a bit, enough to pull his erection out entirely, before slamming back inside _hard_. Quent makes this half-moan half-growl sound that is so beautiful, so perfect, so _loud_ it echoes and he's sure that someone just stops in front of the door, some people somewhere just fucking _hear_ him. It makes his heart skip up a notch. It makes him feel oddly proud because _this is him_ that causes Quentyn to moan, to arch his smaller body against Gerris', desperate, wanting, _craving_ as he grabs a handful lock of Gerris' hair and _pulls_; blunt nails scratching at his scalp as he crushes their mouths together.

It's a sloppy, yet most intimate kiss Gerris has ever felt. Their teeth clash, tongues dancing with each other so _dirty_, so _sensual_ it's hard to believe that this is Quent he's kissing, hard to believe that he's still on earth instead of heaven. Gerris pulls out, thrust forward, and it is the slow pressure, the heat that builds up so slow between them that does it.

"Gerris," mutters Quent brokenly on his cheek, hot breath puffing on the corner of his lips. "That-that one-_oh_. Gerris. Oh. _Gerris._ Oh, oh-I... _oh_," his prince says, moans, and Gerris groans because he can't-he _can't take it_ and lifts his hips higher and fucks forward with new ferocity, this time hitting that sweet spot inside Quentyn's, deeper until he's balls-deep and Quentyn _screams_.

He wonders if it's just as good, just as _fantastic_ and amazing and _gods_—so very intimate it's like nothing stands between them. Gerris is close, he knows. It will only take four or five thrust until he lets go, but he doesn't want to. Not yet anyway, not until Quentyn finishes first because this time it's all about him and they can-they can do it again. That thought alone tips him over the edge as he lifts their bodies higher, until Quent is bent in an impossible angle that must have hurt but it's probably not because he _sobs_, rambling his name over and over again with those lips and _fuck_. Gerris looks down at his prince's erection, beautiful and flushed red and _leaking_ and he wants to—

"_Gerris,_" Quent breathes; desperation thick in his voice. "Oh, Gerris, _oh_, touch me, touch me, _please_, I can't-Gerris _I can't_," he rambles, holds Gerris' stare as he speaks, and Gerris takes pity on him. He leans down to mould their lips together, arches his back at the stinging sensation of Quentyn's nails digging into his skin, grips Quentyn's cock in a tight fist that leaves the younger boy confused on whether to fuck into his hand or down against his cock. Gerris flicks his wrist _just right_ the same time he fucks Quentyn's prostate, and then Quentyn's body is tense and he screams Gerris' name and it's just too much-too much for even him to handle.

The muscles around his cock clench, hot and tight and _perfect_; and Gerris comes harder than he has ever been, spilling his seed inside Quentyn because he's too shocked to pull out.

_I love you_, Gerris thinks, murmurs, and _breathes_.

This is their kind of perfect.

* * *

For once, Gerris sleeps like he does not intend to wake up, _ever_.

Which is why, when he wakes at the sound of the door opening, followed shortly by the loud shattering of glasses, the urgency to kill whoever the fuck has done that burns him like hell. Someone screams bloody-murder, somewhere, and it takes him a while to notice that there is a maid standing by the door, dainty hands covering her gaping mouth as she tries to process the very realistic image of two naked men tangled with one another beneath the covers. Gerris smirks lazily up at her. The room suddenly feels hot. With one free hand, Gerris reaches over to snuggle Quentyn's body closer to his, mouths at one of the marks he left on his jugular, kicks the blanket downward to expose their still-connected bodies.

She shrieks, blushes redder than tomatoes, and bolts out of the door like she just saw a ghost.

Quentyn does not so much as to stir even when he laughs so loud the occupant next door starts banging his fist against the wall.

* * *

Once they have returned back to Dorne, nothing changes, much. They still talk like they used to, with Gerris doing most of the talking and Quentyn making little frowns and scoffs at something he says. It is absolutely normal, perfectly normal even that he is sure _no one_ notices the 'accidental' brush of his fingers against the back of Quentyn's palm, the lingering looks Quentyn (not so often) gives him, or even the little quirk on the corner of the prince's lips, the rolling of the eyes when Gerris slings an arm around his shoulders in a big-brotherly manner. Sometimes they just sit around doing nothing though; leaning against each other like brothers would, except Quentyn's fingers are rubbing nonsense around the skin of his knuckles, heart beats fast yet steady, the occasional swallowing down his throat when Gerris rubs a knuckle against his pulse.

Not surprisingly, Gerris is always the first one to break. Surprisingly, every time he drags the prince off to some secluded corner of the palace all the while kissing him with so much urgency, so much desperation it shocks them both, Quentyn never once utters a single word of complain, if the biting marks all over his shoulders, the fresh scratches across his ribs are anything to come by.

_(Archibald saw them once, the marks on Quentyn's hip when they were stripping their mails after a tourney-practice. He didn't say anything, but Will did, asking which possessive whore dared leaving that kind of mark on his prince-ly skin, which caused Quentyn to turn away to hide the flush from creeping down his chest, stuttering that it's none of their business. There was a big feral grin on Gerris' face then, and he had teased the prince if he had any other marks down there between his thighs. Everyone burst out laughing while Quentyn tried to make a grab at his hair, flushing, everyone saved for Archibald._

"_Which possessive _whore_ would do that, I wonder," Arch whispered to his ear, after, during dinner down at the harbour, and Gerris bit the inside of his cheeks to prevent him from throwing the hot weasel soup to his face.)_

They left marks on each other's skin, always. Gerris' marks are more apparent because he never wears long-sleeved clothes or the ones with high-collars. Nearly everyone knows about his marks, some even has the gut to touch the one on his jaw, curious, questions clear in their eyes that Gerris only replies with a casual shrug of his shoulder. He'd catch Quentyn's eyes on him when someone becomes too bold, too close, and although Gerris does not mind because he's not the kind of person who respects personal spaces like Quentyn is, there is a silent message in those dark blue eyes that promises something dark if Gerris doesn't move his ass _way back_. It is weird, he thinks, how he always does whatever Quentyn commands him to do, spoken or not.

And here Archie telling him he's the possessive bastard in this-_thing_, whatever it is they're doing.

It just occurs to him then, as he fucks the younger man above the silk-soft mattress, lips latched intimately on the column of Quentyn's throat before moving up to capture his lips in a tight searing kiss that devours the prince's scream of pleasure when they finally reach their limit, that Quentyn never once tells him that he-that he... what? _Loves him back_?

For the first time in two years, Gerris lays awake on the bed, restless despite the feeling of Quentyn's arms around his waist, Quentyn's chapped lips on the crook of his neck.

Somehow, it is not enough.

* * *

On Quentyn's eight-and-ten birthday, Prince Doran Martell offers him the most expensive gift a father can offer to his son: the Seven Kingdom itself.

"You shall marry Daenerys Targaryen, my son," he says, announces. "And there comes the greatest gift for your name day. You shall marry her, and take Westeros with fire and blood."

There are only a few people in the court room. Prince Oberyn stands tall beside his older, weaker brother, while he, Will, Cletus and Archibald stand by the door beside Areo Hotah and his wife of an axe. Quentyn kneels down beneath the throne, his passive face shows nothing but indifference, yet Gerris sees it all the same. The sudden tightness of the muscles around his jaw, the stiffening posture of his body, the choked breath that strangles its way out of his lips; it's there. The mixture of fear, hurt, rejection clouding in those dark blue eyes as he stares up at the ruling lord of Dorne. Gerris tries to swallow, tries to work his brain out of this, tries to look at _everything_ but _Quent_—Quent who is down on his knees, who is the ever most loyal to his family, who has duties that he always keeps, never abandons.

Gerris finds Oberyn Martell's dark eyes stripping him off his masks across the room. He suddenly remembers that the Red Viper knows, about Quent and him, since long, long ago. He holds his gaze because it's the only thing that keeps him standing firm on his feet.

Quentyn does not so much as to _look_ at him when he replies, "Yes, Father."

His voice carries, pierces the silence like a dagger through Gerris' heart.

* * *

Wine, he thinks, is a man's best companion. It pleases him better than any whores; warm heat coiling in the pit of his stomach, enough to be comfortable, still not enough for what he _wants_. Better then, it does not _speak_, nor does it ask _questions_ like people do. Screw Cletus who keeps urging him to get a dog, a wine is all he needs to ease all the tension in his body. The warmth slithering past his throat, down to his chest, spreading throughout his body feels like _heaven_. It does not fill that empty spot on the left side beneath his ribcage though. Gaping hole that leaves him breathless in the worst way possible, a blunt knife twisting in his gut like it does to his soul. He can already imagine his bowels coming out of his stomach. And all the mess he'd make... _gods_.

Smiling bitterly to himself, Gerris tips the rim of his glass into his mouth, forcing the burning liquid down until it practically hurts to swallow. Even breathing hurts like a bitch. Warm tears well on the corner of his eyes at the sudden painful feeling as his lips part open, spilling some of the wine on to the ground. Some of it even pours out of his nose, which earns him disgusted looks from the owner and the rest of the customers who happen to look at his way.

Of course they'd look, he thinks. He's tall and gorgeous, and although he's a bit of an ass, Gerris knows that he has all the requirements to be wanted by anyone, men and women both. Perhaps some of them are disgusted now, but with a bit of a cleanup, a crooked smirk plus an innocent invitation, he'd probably get two of them at once. He _knows_ because he had done that before, long before Quent, long before he started fucking while imagining the young face of his prince, screaming _his_ name instead of his partners' because it wouldn't feel right if he didn't. Gerris wonders when things started to change. He wonders why the hell he would be attracted to Quent who is plain-faced, solemn without any traces of happiness about him sometimes, when there are so many, _so many_ people begging for his attention out there.

'_Don't even go there,'_ the voice inside him growls, warns. _'He wants you not, the fucking prince. Get yourself free you stupid bastard.'_

And get himself free he does.

There is a woman on the corner of the room. Well, there are women on each corner of the room, but that's not the point. This one keeps looking at him since the moment he entered the bar a few hours back; her dress colourful and soft, sliding enticingly down the smooth dark skin of her body. She wants him, he realizes, not even trying to be surprise when she locks his gaze with hers, the barest of a smile on her lips as one hand trails down between her legs. His eyes follow the movement, interested at the pleasant progress they are going at. He hasn't even seduced her yet, damn it all to hell.

Purple shorts beneath bright golden silk covering her thighs are removed, slowly, _oh-so slow_, just enough for him to see a flash of soft black hair. Four fingers slip inside the material, moving, dancing, while one thumb toying with the waistband like she's not sure whether to go straight for the kill or tease him some more. Gerris looks up then, at her eyes, a pair of bright green darkened with lust. The woman gasps, eyes fluttering close and he watches as she pushes a finger inside her, watches the cloth turning a darker shade of purple. Fuck.

Gerris loves Quentyn, really he does. But there is a woman right there, in the middle of an inn full of fucking people chattering about without the _slightest idea_ of what is happening behind their backs, who wants him and is obviously _sopping wet_ for him, eyes glazed like he is a new religion of sorts. He loves Quent but he is a man, who has his... _something_, beneath his chest broken, drowning in waves of despair, who has _needs_, who craves for a little bit of relief that does not involve complication from a one-time thing. There is no sin in that. No faults in his part either because for all he knows, Quentyn probably does not think anything of what they've been doing for the last couple of years. Maybe he's been fucking that kitchen-woman too, unlikely as it is, but it's a possibility. A possibility that makes his head ache and his rage boil and he's half-hard from watching the movement of fingers that suddenly become erratic beneath the woman's shorts.

He looks at her straight in the eye, bites his lip, before motioning toward the back door with a short nod of his head.

They are out of the inn within four seconds flat.

* * *

Fucking a woman again since forever feels good. It makes him feel good, really, _really_ good that he does it again after she comes, thrice now, and she does not even complain. Her nails are scratching his back, painfully sharp but so, _so good_ it makes him feel _alive_.

She wraps her legs around his waist in a tight-dead grip as he fucks forward, pulls back, fucks so deep inside her again until she is sobbing, voice filled with raw desperation he has to bite his lip _hard_ to keep him from coming. Beads of sweat are falling from his body to hers between messy open-mouthed kisses. The dim light of the room reflects upon her dark skin, shining gold and _perfect_ and _beautiful_ Gerris clenches his jaws together because he _can't_. He wants to, _wants so much_ to sink his teeth into that perfect flawless skin, marks her as his because this woman is so perfect he actually forgets what he's been brooding around for all night. For a moment it is him and this woman and his cock wet with pre-cum and her soft hand squeezing around his balls and _gods_—

The door of his rented room slams open like it's been hit by a storm. Gerris snaps his head to the side, eyes wide at the sight of Oberyn Martell and his exotic paramour, both naked standing by the doorframe like it's the most normal thing to do. His eyes shift down to the wet trail of saliva down the prince's stomach, to the black pubic hair... and finally the impressive _already slick_ cock straining between his legs, hard as rock as the sun is clear as day. Gerris moans at the tightening walls around his own cock—or maybe at the sight of Oberyn's cock or Ellaria's dark brown nipples, he's not sure. He's not even sure if it's real anymore, it's all too much for him to take.

Just as he is about to come, the woman he's been fucking grabs his erection, squeezes _hard_ and he chokes for air, breath catches because _he needs to come or else_.

A cruel lustful chuckle echoes through the room as Oberyn strides forward, Ellaria hot on his heels, eyes roaming all over his body in approval. He wants to come, he thinks, _whines_, but the grip around his cock tightens further it _hurts_ so he doesn't. Gerris whines and sobs and _needs_; body trembling from the orgasm-denial, breath ragged uncontrollably into short painful gasps that make his lungs burn_. Please, please, please,_ he chants, the word comes out in a pathetic pleading sound. The laughter dies, but his prayer increases louder along with his moans when rough calloused hand trailing down the small of his back, between the cheeks of his ass, parts them open as a hot wet hot tongue slides over the crack boldly. Ellaria Sand devours whatever sounds threatening to fall from his lips by crushing her mouth to his.

Oberyn Martell lifts his hips roughly, positions his cock at his entrance before kissing his paramour, kissing Gerris then licks the knuckles of the woman beneath him politely, almost.

"_Proceed,_" he snarls, too rough and too low and too fucking _hot_ in Gerris' ear and then he thrust down into him, inside him, splitting him open without any preparation and it _fucking hurts_, it hurts _so fucking bad_ he might die but—but there are soft lips on the column of his throat, teeth nibbling at the sensitive skin on the crook of his neck, Ellaria's lips on his and his cock is back inside the woman's and he thinks _oh_.

_Oh._

Gerris comes so hard; so long his body shakes in exhaustion before passing out.

* * *

"_I'm not your whore," Gerris says, after. Oberyn grins a dark wide grin that stretches from ear to ear on his chest, tongue swirls playfully around one abused nipple as his fingers curl around the length of Gerris' cock teasingly. Ellaria pushes an oil-slicked finger inside him at the same time, perfectly synchronized with her lover. The woman whose name he can't even remember anymore kisses the corner of his mouth, one hand carding through his blonde ashy locks to keep him down, keep him from screaming. Gerris gasps as a rope ties his wrists together, a scarf of green silk covers his eyes while wondering fingers explore every inch of his well-fucked, not to mention completely spent body._

_Wet hot lips wrap around his cock, taking him all the way in and his hips are being lifted once again. He knows it's not Oberyn's lips when the prince speaks._

"_You're not," he tells him, a smile in his voice. "My whore. You're not my whore," he repeats, smugly, presses a finger deep against his prostate, pulls out, then thrust forward with such ferocity it splits his world apart._

_He's not, Gerris thinks, prays, a Martell's whore, even as he sobs, screams, 'harder, faster, harder, please, please, that, yes, harder, harder, Oberyn, harder' in the quiet night._

* * *

"My nephew," Oberyn says, the word like a warning on his tongue, looking at Gerris intently through the crowd. Arianne courtesies and kisses his cheek, an obedient princess she is, not even taking notice at the sensuous sway of her uncle's paramour as her eyes burn a brand new hole on Gerris' face.

"My nephew," says the prince once more. "Give him a chance."

They share a look where Gerris stands there, mortified and slightly dumbfounded but he hears. The Red Viper looks deadlier when he doesn't respond; eyes cold and jaws clench that even Prince Doran can feel the tension from his place on the chair by the Sand Snakes.

Gerris only nods-at what he's not sure, but it's enough.

* * *

Weeks later, nearly a month after Quentyn's secret betrothal to the dragon queen, three days after the news of Prince Oberyn Martell's death reach Dorne, Cletus finds him on the rooftop of his apartment close by the castle. Will and Arch have gone into the fancy brothel on the other side of the street, but Cletus being Cletus, a good innocent saint he is, has climbed to sit on the empty spot beside him. He is quiet which is not unusual by any means. Only that his silence is packed with this uncomfortable nudging feeling that judges him down, a heavy weight on his shoulders, around his heart, like he has done something terribly wrong in the faces of the gods. Yet he won't say anything because he knows it is not his place to say, that he won't say anything until Gerris tells him.

He doesn't though, so they stay like that in a quiet discomfort until night falls. He sees Archibald throwing weird looks at him through the window every once in a while, Cletus nodding at something Will mouths at him on the other window. It's pretty clear that they want to talk, want to know if there's something wrong (obviously there is), and if they can help him or anything, but it's not something he can just _talk_ about. Being humiliated for years if he does tell them aside, Gerris does not, _cannot_ tell them anything or else problems will arise for Quent, who is going to be married with the most beautiful woman in the world soon. He's loud and selfish and arrogant and everything, but he is not _that_ selfish.

Love and Kingdom does not go hand-in-hand, Gerris thinks, bitter. A crow lands smoothly on the rooftop beside him, scoots closer until it practically straddles the back of his palm, black eyes full of curiosity. It croaks rather loudly, tilting his head to the side as if asking whether or not Gerris' flesh will taste as delicious as he looks. Fucking crows and their flesh-eating habits. He doesn't complain or try to scare it away when it flops on to his shoulder though. Even when the crow starts pecking at the loose strands of ashy blonde hair, Gerris lets it and says nothing.

Which is why, it surprises him more than it does to Cletus, that he is the one who breaks the silence first.

"If this is one of those _"I'm your friend so you can tell me anything"_ craps, my sword is sharp enough to mutilate you bits by bits and feed your meat to your dogs." Gerris snaps, obviously annoyed, completely irritated. "They deserve at least that much," he adds as an afterthought. Cletus looks at him flatly.

"Pray tell, why in the seven hells would I do that?" the man states with voice as flat as the expression on his face. Gerris shrugs because he might grab the crow by its neck, slamming it down on Cletus' face if he doesn't.

The night gets colder like the silence that stretches more uncomfortably between them. It doesn't take long for Gerris to snap, everyone knows that. So it doesn't really strike him as weird when Cletus suddenly takes a good look at him, brows furrow in concentration, lips quirk down in a confused frown at his lack of verbal-or physical response from the other man.

Will's bawdy laughter rings across the quiet street like thunder. Glasses are breaking, plates and forks and spoons flying around the room in a frenzy food-war of sorts. He sees a woman being chased, an innocent passerby-cat jumps out of the window in time to cover his line of sight when the same woman jumps on Archie's lap. Unlike him, who watches the entire thing with a big amused grin, Cletus has this weird soft smile on his face, knowing, too wise beyond his age. His eyes rake up and down the entire thing longingly, like he wants to but at the same time he doesn't. Cletus is a conflicted person who is nice to everyone, who actually cares though he never says so because it won't feel right if he does. Gerris feels a pang of guilt in his chest at the knowledge.

He doesn't say _I'm sorry_ like he knows he's supposed to. Instead he shifts closer to the right, lets his shoulder brush against Cletus', his fingers rub soothing circles on the back of his palm in apology. Cletus doesn't say anything at that either, but the corner of his lips curves and he arches his hand into the touch reassuringly. Somehow that makes it all better, both forgiven and forgotten like Gerris never snapped in the first place. They continue to stare as chaotic events unfold in front of their eyes, watching Archibald runs a hand down the side of a woman's waist as she rides him, snickering to find Will, two women on each arm as he drinks to his heart's content. It replaces his grin into a small smile mirroring Cletus', and for the first time in weeks, he relaxes against the breeze, against the firm weight of Cletus on his side and the feet of the crow still planted firmly into his shoulder.

After what feels like hours of comfortable silence, Cletus clears his throat in attempt to get his attention. His eyes are locked with Gerris' the entire time as he speaks; "Something happened between you and Quentyn. Whatever it is, one of you need to fix things." Pausing, he tilts his head. "Before we leave again, I should think."

Gerris laughs, the sound surprisingly clear and affectionate. "Why? As to not leave a bile taste in the prince's arse?"

There is another pause of Cletus staring at him, before it turns into a cold glare that sends shiver of discomfort down his spine. Like everyone else, Cletus is a normal guy who jokes and brawls and walks like he owns the world, nice person as he is. And like everyone else, Cletus is just as overprotective of Quentyn like Gerris is. Insulting the prince in front of either of them can never do a guy any good even if he is drunk on alcohol. Unfortunately Gerris is sober, and hasn't had a single cup of wine since early morning. The outcome of such thing is usually much worse than being intoxicated.

"No one is going to ask what happened between you two," except Archie who _definitely_ has an idea or two, Gerris thinks. "But you two are friends. Even I have to admit that you are closer to Quent than any of us are, so whatever it is, just fix it Ger.

Prince Oberyn is dead, and while those two aren't really the closest in the family, he mourns for his uncle all the same." Something flashes across his face when he says this. Gerris can't pinpoint what is it exactly, but he doesn't imagine it. It was there, and he tries not to swallow because-there is no way Cletus knows. He _can't_ know, _no one_ can know. "The least you can do is be there for him." Cletus finishes, unsure. Gerris says nothing, not trusting himself to speak at the moment. He will probably say something stupid, _ask_ something stupid, like if he was in a bloody inn by the harbour the same night Prince Oberyn and Ellaria Sand were there, and if he rented a room on the third floor close by the staircases because if memory serves right, there are three rooms on the third floor with Gerris taking the end far from the stair and the room in the middle was totally the prince's.

From the brothel across, the room has gone a bit quieter. Will has his back facing the window, the two women from before writhing beneath his body as he fucks one and pushes a finger inside the other while Archibald lays bloody naked on the floor with a different woman. The owner of the brothel comes out to put the 'Unavailable' sign on the door even though it's still early. Not that Gerris is complaining or anything. He'd rather not have his friends humiliated by others so the dragons are probably worth the mess.

Crow pecks at his cheek a bit more painfully than when it does to his hair. Gerris finally shrugs it off his shoulder, curses a thousand language as it flaps its black wings all over his face at the sudden rejection of a landing place. It flies far into the starless sky; the glossy black of its wings mix rather fittingly with the darkness of the sky. Unbidden his thoughts reach for Quentyn, the feel of his hair rough and thick and tangled as he carded his hands through the locks, comparing it to that of a woman's yet everything with him felt _just right_. He sees blue eyes so dark they're nearly black, like the colour of the sky right now, misses the feeling of the hair-_Quentyn's_ hair-between his fingers once again, the plane of his jaw, his voice like the way he misses home.

"I'll talk to him," he says, sudden, small little voice that barely reaches Cletus' ears.

"Everyone knows you will," replies the other man smoothly. Gerris nods but it's a slight jerky motion that neither notices, but he knows. Cletus is sharp and he's known Gerris for as long as forever so he must take note of it, somehow. He closes his eyes and tries to see home; the wide field of green, tall sharp grass scratching against the exposed skin of his legs between black boots and knee-length breeches; the fine breeze that never ceases to annoy his hair, his sisters sitting by his side under the big tree near their house...

He closes his eyes but it's Quentyn he sees.

* * *

"The most beautiful woman in the world they say," Gerris drawls as he pushes the door close and locks it. "Can you imagine the face of this _most beautiful woman_ in the world look like? Silver hair, purple eyes... must be her breasts, then..."

It is a question rather than a statement, and he expects Quentyn to be frowning when the prince turns around to face him; the usual annoyed quirk of his lips in place like it always does when he's pissed at something stupid that comes from Gerris' mouth.

He doesn't know what to feel when he finds that it's not there, and that Quentyn is looking at him not with this flat-face of indifferent but there's... _something_ in his eyes. Sadness, nervousness, _desperation_ most of all. Vague as they are, Gerris knows desperation when he sees one. After all, he's been _living_ with it for years.

"Just tell me what you want before you step out of the door again, Gerris." The outburst doesn't surprise him, but the flicker of anger crossing the prince's face does. Also, calling him by his full first name instead of the usual _'Ger'_ using the thick-authority voice he _rarely_ uses is a surprise in itself that, for some reason, frightens the daylight out of him.

Gerris swallows the unpleasant bile down his throat. _Focus_, he tells himself. _Can't chicken out now of all times_. "Look, we need to talk," about what he's not sure. All he knows is they do _need_ to talk, whatever it is, as long as they're talking, at this point he doesn't really care anymore.

Quentyn purses his lips together, brows furrowed. This time, he _does_ look angry. One moment the prince looks as calm as still water, next he's angrier than he has ever been in the entire lifetime Gerris has known him, and Gerris doesn't know how to respond to all that because this is new to him – to _them_ both.

When the prince speaks again, it's like an animal with big sharp claws is slashing its way out of his stomach.

"Did you really have sex with my uncle, Gerris?"

Time seems to stop as the question sinks in. Billions and billions of questions are screaming inside his head, forcing their way out of him in a mad rush he can barely _think_. First things first though, Gerris thinks of Archibald and his lousy mouth – but then there's the thing with who did he get the information from, and fucking _how_ did he get it, because he is _absolutely_ sure Prince Oberyn said something about no one knowing that... _arrangement_ of theirs, nights ago.

He wipes the guilt rushing through his core when he realizes that he barely cares of the said Prince's recent death and more toward his personal selfish matter. It's probably irrelevant though, since he is Ser Gerris Drinkwater and not the goody-doer Cletus is. He doesn't care what others think of him, what others _will_ think of him, never did never does. There's no reason to start now. He is selfish and daring, sarcastic and is in love with the thrill of adrenaline pumping through his veins more than anything else aside his cock. Charming, yes, everyone says he does. Nice is barely categorized in the mental dictionary about him. Or something.

Gerris' throat works as he swallows. He resists the urge to point out that Quentyn is, apparently distracted, watching the movement with angry predatory eyes. "So what if I did? It's not like you care –"and he stops, voice cracking at the end, realization dawns upon him with horror ten-folds at what he just said. Holy fuck.

If look can kill, Gerris thinks, he is already floating in the realm of afterlife by now. The look Quentyn throws at him is all fury; uncontainable rage and hatred mixing together in the depth of his dark blue eyes, sending a violent down his spine. Sadly it's not the good kind of shiver he always gets near Quent. By now Gerris is positively frightened, absolutely terrified, and forgets for a mere fleeting second that he is older, stronger, and larger in frame than the prince.

Instinctively, he begins to apologize. "Quent, wait, please that's not – that's not what I mean, I can explain –"

"Get. _Out_," grits Quentyn through hard-clenched teeth. "_Out_ now Ger. Before I murder you myself."

And it's downhill from there.

* * *

Holy fuck, look at the large amount of my laziness spreading around here. See the number 'two' beside the number one column on the chapter thingy? Yeah, due to my laziness, this story that was supposed to be a one-shot changed to two-shots. Fuuuuccckkk.


End file.
